


Welcome to the ordinary

by Feja



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Eventual Romance, F/M, Normal Life, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Civil War (Marvel), What-If, people do not know about superhero stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feja/pseuds/Feja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So our favourite winter soldier gets an impetus towards remembering and runs off to a foreign country to hide with no specific plan. He manages to meet a number of nice and genial people but ends up living with a not-so-nice and caring person. Also I thought about a place where people only hear about superhero stuff from TV and perceive it as fiction. Welcome to "normal" life, Bucky...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter all around

**Author's Note:**

> I only own OCs, the rest belongs to Marvel. I also sat on this thing for quite some time so Ant-man post credit scene does not fit the storyline. Yet. I may make some adjustments.  
> Also my first fanfiction so sorry for possible mistakes with posting and fanfiction etiquette.

A cargo plane he entered after a visit to Smithsonian and days-long pondering and trying to make his brain remember has just landed. He did not bother to check the destination before the take-off - the flight was international and that had been enough for the time being. Now that he swiftly entered the storage facility, he could not help wondering and analysing.  
Firstly, the weird sing-songy language did not ring any bells - it was neither Russian, nor English.  
Secondly, even though he was not in Russia, it was damn cold outside.  
Thirdly, the signs and indicators were both in the local language and in English - a very fortunate turn of events, even though his skill set ensured his survival anywhere, signs or no signs.  
He studied the quaint lettering on the nearest sign: some symbols were not familiar. An “a” had a small circle above and and “o” was crossed out. The next sign even contained a weird fusion of two “e”s, one of them turned by 180 degrees.  
The man followed the path labeled by a “storage room” sign, only to find a locked metal door on his way. The door was closed and no signs of presence came from inside: no noises, no light, no nothing. The place looked almost deserted now that he thought of it. He looked around and found the wires - the door was secured by some kind of alarm system. Lack of people and alarms… these were all too familiar. He had to focus on the task at hand to distract himself from slipping into a “search and destroy mode”.  
Another thing that helped him relax was the obvious gap in security - there was a ventilation window wide enough for him to enter the room and low enough so that he could jump there pushing off the opposite wall. It was a ridiculous omission and a person in charge of security systems here had to be at least sacked, but preferably severely punish… He caught himself mid-thought - he was not with them anymore and had to abandon their ways altogether to try and find a man almost wiped from inside him. This man was still there - it could only be him that indicated what was appropriate and normal (that still left a lot to be defined) and what was by no means acceptable - like killing people for their mistakes (which came naturally this time).  
He squeezed inside and slid on the floor trying to make as little noise as possible. Ninety percent sure there were no more safety devices he double checked every possible place they could have been found. There were none. He found a flashlight on a shelf by the door - a number of them sat there waiting, along with a dozen bottles of water and a radio. They were not prepared for thieves and other intruders, but strangely had foreseen a blackout.  
He found a sign with incomprehensible “Forsinket bagasje” on it and realized that he found what he had hoped for - a room full of dusty travel bags. He did not want to steal (his conscience was both new and familiar, and attempts to reconcile the feelings made his head hurt) but had to get by in the freezing surrounding and lost baggage could just be the answer.  
He found a backpack, a set of slightly too big boots, a thick jacket and a pair of dark jeans. There was also a strange but comfortable jacket with a hood on it, a set of not matching socks. He barely fit his shoulders in the jacket, it clung like a second skin while the jeans were quite loose around his waist but all of this did not matter - he wore civilian clothes and was sure that he was not going to suffer from hypothermia, which meant he could be on the run for as long as it takes. He had to desire to ponder on the actual length of that period.  
He zipped up all the bags, setting them in the initial order, put on a black knitted cap and a pair of thick gloves and made his way back. His hand hovered over the shelf and finally made its way back to the pocket - with the flashlight still clutched in his palm. He made a mental notch to bring it back - not that stealing it was a major crime, but no crime was consistent with his new knowledge of his old self. He made his way back through the window, evaded a couple of men in bright fluorescent vests and ventured in the open. As far as he could see, the tarmac was empty except for a white plane with an out-of-place red tip in the far end of the cement field.  
He jumped over the fence - no additional protection besides a 2 meters of metal wire - and strolled to the city visible to the north.  
After a half an hour walk on the roadside, during which only three cars passed by him, he found out that he was either in a really small town or in some kind of a suburb. All he could see in the distance were single- or two-storey buildings, trees and snow.  
He spent the next half an hour wandering around the streets, trying to guess where he was and why it was so empty around there. The first group of people he saw were three men, one of them had his hand in a cast, that stood by a big truck loaded with white cans. They were arguing and looking inside the cars but making no moves to enter it.  
He was noticed as he walked on the opposite side of the street, and one of the men, a grey-haired old man that looked around 80 waved him over and shouted something. The newcomer paused contemplating his options. Running won’t do, it could only draw unwanted attention, there was also no reason to fight an old man and an already injured person, they did not pose a threat. He could still go his way, pretending not to hear, but the old man already moved toward him across the street. Walking did not come easy to him, he was limping on his left leg and had a general image of fragility elderly people tend to have.  
The newcomer sighed and hurried to the stranger congratulating himself on a new piece of information regarding old people that came out of the blue - he was positive he could not recall meeting any actual people of that age and state of health. Yet he just knew. Strange, but not unpleasant to know something firsthand.  
“Hej! Candoo yelpey uss?” - the old man seemed to ask.  
The man with a backpack furrowed his brow and was treated to a repeated question. He still did not understand what was said but could swear his was expected to help.  
“Do you happen to speak English?” - he asked after an inner debate on what language to use.  
“He does not, but I do,” - interrupted a man with a cast.  
“I speak too”. - An old man shot him a glance. - “But only a little”.  
“Right. So, we do not have time for pleasantries. We really need help with those” - he waived at the cans - “I broke my bloody arm, uncle is too old for this and Ole here cannot unload them alone. We have half an hour before the shop opens, so we will pay you 200 krones for your help. If you make it in time by some miracle I’ll make it a thousand.”  
They had an accent that left a hint of melodic aftertaste to the words, though the old man was heavy on the “r”s. And their currency was krones… But unfortunately it gave the newcomer no idea as to where he had landed. Still, money meant food, clothes and probably housing so much needed in this winter kingdom. He also found the idea of earning his living and providing for himself extremely appealing.  
“Sure” - he shrugged, dropped his backpack by the door and got to work, following instructions given by the man in a cast and Ole’s gestures. The cans were not that heavy and he could have unloaded them alone, but that would have obviously drawn attention to him for Ole was neither small nor weak judging by his appearance.  
By the time they took the last can to the shop’s back room, the clock on a wall showed 8-53. The old man had his nose buried in some ledger, but as Ole plopped on a chair nearby, he looked up, double checked the time on his watch and yelled something, then turned to his new employee, who has just returned with a backpack.  
“Your name, kid? What your name?”  
“James” - answered the man.  
“Olaf”, - an old man pressed a finger to his chest, then pointed at James’ partner and somewhere in direction of the shop. “That Ole. And Lars”. For some reason the last name sounded like “lash”.  
James just nodded, but that was not enough - Ole rose from his chair, took off a glove and extended his right arm. After a small pause James followed his intuition and repeated the man’s actions.  
By the time this small exchange was over, Lars came back to the room with four bottles of dark glass in his hands. He winked at them and threw two bottles at James and Ole, then placed one in front of the old man.  
“Skol’” - he whispered. “We have to make this day better. I almost started like…” he paused as if trying to come up with a word. “Shit!”  
James studied the bottle. It had a word “øl” on a label. An on it’s top rim there was a faint line “Best Norwegian beer. Since 1845”.  
So was he in Norway?  
“This is beer. Really good!” - Lars waved a bottle in front of him. “It’s alright to drink when you’ve started your work already”  
James tried to remember what he knew about beer. Apparently, it had to be good. He uncapped the bottle and took a sip. And then something went wrong. His brain filled with alarm and confusion - the drink was not beer. It was too… He did not know what property differed and from what, but he was convinced beer tasted some other way. His first instinct was to throw the bottle away and turn at the men, demand what that was and what they wanted. But he sensed no poison, no harm coming from the bitter liquid. There must have been confusion written all over his face, because the men laughed, spoke in their language and Lars translated for him: “You’re an American, right? You have some coloured water for beer, this might be too strong for you”.  
“Am not American” - denied James.  
“Alright. The beer in England is shit too”.  
James just shrugged.  
“Alright, I owe you a thousand kronor” - Lars digged in his pocket and fished out a thick wallet. The bill was white and purple-ish with a portrait of some man printed over it. James pocketed the bill and thanked Lars.  
“So, what are you doing here?” - asked the employer.  
“Travel”.  
“Ow, good. And bad. I hoped you could help us out for some time”  
“Why not?”  
“So don’t you have to be somewhere?”  
“Not really. I can do some work for you.”  
“This thing will be with me for a month, no less” - Lars banged his cast on the edge of a table, which made Olaf purse his lips and shake his head disapprovingly. “Do you live far?”  
“I have just come, I have to find a place”  
“So you haven’t booked anything?”  
James just shook his head no. He was quickly getting tired of company, their noise and attention overwhelming him.  
“We don’t have accommodation nearby, only in the center, it is like half a hour ride on car and over 40 minutes on bus. I really doubt you’ll commute here and back for money that do not cover your housing…” Lars shook his head and James suddenly wondered how much 1000 krones could buy.  
Ole asked something and Lars and Olaf engaged the conversation in Norwegian that James did not understand. He did not try to either way, too engrossed in sifting through his problems: cold, lack of money, housing. And chances to get by in a country speaking another language.  
Ole called someone and after a couple of minutes of talking nodded at Lars.  
“So, um, James, how about you help me with the stores every morning from 7 to 9 for a fee of 200 kronor a day and Ole’s brother-in-law gives you a place to live? It’s a half of a house, small but free. There’s another owner by she doesn’t live here and doesn’t mind that someone else might use the place if they stay out of her room and keep the house tidy”.  
“That would be great” - nodded James, suppressing the nagging feeling that things went too smoothly to be true, that there must be a catch.  
“Alright, dude! Come here in two hours and I’ll give you the keys”  
James thanked all of the men, shook Ole’s hand once more upon his insistence and went out, zipping up his coat on his neck. The last thing he heard was the voice of Olaf “Hvorfor bor han ikke der?”


	2. A house is not a home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to settle in a new place.

He had some trouble finding the house - it happened to be in a dead end of a street that was a 20 minute walk from the shop. He took another road that only took him half of that time to reach a point where the house could be seen - but not accessed. He decided against jumping over a couple of fences separating the streets and made a long roundabout.   
The house was relatively small and it stood out against the neighbouring ones, all painted red or white - it was a complex shade of orange mixed with pink. There were trees making up a green hedge, so only a porch could be seen from the road. It had two storeys and a garret. Inside he found a noticeable layer of dust over everything and all the devices unplugged. The house really looked deserted. He entered a room Ole’s brother-in-law named Alex designated - it was on the second floor, right across from the stairway. It looked prepared for a visit - a set of bed linens on the edge of a twin-sized bed, three towels on the table, even a pair of thick woolen house-shoes waiting for a visitor.  
After a quick shower and a fight with bed cloths which came with a knowledge that putting on a blanket cover irritated the life out of him, he slipped in bed and closed his eyes. He had not slept in forever, too overtaken with coming to terms with himself and trying to define which side to take, that he must have fallen asleep immediately.   
The next week let him develop some schedule - he woke up and went to work, bought some groceries from Lars’ wife in the very same shop (turned out 200 and even 1000 krones were not much), came back, ate his breakfast and got to real work. He bought a big notebook where he put all the information he knew, heard or got from reliable sources. The data fell in three categories: himself, the blond man with a shield and Hydra.  
The first section was totally unstructured and mostly dealt with “I know but can’t tell how” facts. He’s s been pushing himself to headache nightly prying, trying to make a bargain with a uniformed man that looked at him from a display in Smithsonian. Sometimes, he gave nothing, at other moments James just learned women made great company, duvet covers were the pain in the ass and the blond man had been a friend indeed. The blond man was a bunch of contradictory features - he was a friend and a target, he was a boy and a grown man, he was both weak and strong… Attempts to sort these pieces of knowledge out took a lot of time and did not bring any reward whatsoever in a week’s time, even though he only made breaks for two more meals and exercises, preferably after 9pm when the streets emptied out.  
A week passed in this work - eat - think - exercise routine and defying other information became unbearable. There were people who plead, looked at him with terrified eyes, begged and cursed him, those who tried to fight back - hello again, Steve - most of them to no avail. He knew - he saw - what he did, and it scared him, he was disgusted with himself, and yet he could not accept that it was his doing. Same applied to the notebook - every word and sketch in it seemed to belong to a whole different person.   
James was a blank page. And facts to fill him came from two different people, one emotional, attached and carrying a baggage of memories - Bucky. Another one was a set of skills and visions and no personal take on the events that took place before his eyes, giving no consideration to his own actions. This one did not seem to have a name, only a title - Soldier.   
Bucky gave James knowledge of common things and a lot of attitude. The soldier shared skills and reactions, some of them suppressed by Bucky - at first with reasoning (“normal people don’t do THAT”), then with rage and frustration.  
James just tried to manoeuvre between them heavily inclined to do the “normal”. Normal could ensure that he lives there unnoticed by his chasers for some time and he was also convinced he did not do anything normal for quite some time. One more reason for following “Bucky” was that the thing on his left shoulder belonged to thу Soldier and James wanted to counterbalance this advantage between the two.  
He still could not bear being among people for too long, small talks he could do, but mindless chatter of Lars’ wife strained his tolerance and goodwill. He tried to avoid neighbors, so far successfully skipping the attention of a loud family with three kids that occupied the grand house across from him. The only other close neighbor was an old lady that lived alone in an equally spacious building to his left - those were her fences he had prefered not to cross his first day here. She had her groceries delivered and rarely left the house - only to empty the mailbox. The way of 150 meters there and back took her almost 10 minutes. The lot next to his place of living was under construction, but no workers came to finish the half installed foundation - which gave him hope that possibly snow and blizzards had an actual end.  
To somehow distract himself from the voices and pictures in his head, James began exploring the city. Learning the vicinity of his residence took a day - all the streets in this suburban area looked pretty much the same: family houses with their big yards, occasional shops, a church, a school and a stadium. The airport was to the north, downtown was in the south-east. It took an hour on foot (pace slow enough not to draw attention of passers-by) or half that time running to enter a more lively district, where building were gradually getting taller, amount of people in the streets grew and traffic became somewhat noticeable. He made it a rule to learn a new object each time - a hotel, a movie theatre, a concert hall… Anything to put on his mental map of this place.  
He also started to pay attention to the house. It had a basement, a sitting room and a kitchen on the first floor, two rooms on the second one and a locked door leading to the garret. Keeping in mind the condition of his being here, he found a set of cleaning liquids, dusters and a mop and spent a whole day cleaning the house, studiously checking each surface and item for dust like he used to for bugs. It was only a task just not a usual one - he promised to keep the place clean and he worked on that. Even though he did not make much mess cooking - he only knew how to use a cooking stove - he still took the dust off even item in the kitchen. A rectangular box of white metal with a glass round plate inside and a black egg-shaped device with a pot hidden did not get any recognition and he decided to let them be. The washing machine in the basement had an instruction laid out at the top along with a box of detergent and a set of bags made of some net that he could not place. The instruction was a piece of cake as soon as he studied the buttons, so he put there all the clothes he had. In an hour and a half he solved the riddle that was a device made of thick metal wire - the thing had to be unfolded and used to place damp garments there.  
The house was guest-friendly but in a detached sort of way, it had everything one might need to live with comfort by no welcoming items - like accommodation for rent. And to add to the image of a hotel, the only knick-knack there was a framed picture of two laughing people: a gray haired man with dark skin and wrinkles and a girl with hair unusually dark for locals and a heavy tan. She looked no more than 12.   
Trying to blend in with the society even for a couple of hours proved to be incredibly challenging. He worked hard not to follow the urges of the soldier and rely on Bucky’s intuition. Easier said than done though. Ole once dropped a stack of metal cans on the floor and the soldier almost finished him barehanded, alerted by a loud noise and only seeing one source of potential danger. Another morning Lars extended their usual small talk to insistently asking for the background of the guest which made the soldier want to suffocate him until he disclosed who he worked for and what he already knew. Lars’ wife, Anna, once commented on him wearing gloves inside and made it a habit to joke about an English sissy that must be taking shower in a coat and living by a fireplace. This attention - any attention - was incredibly difficult to handle and totally unwanted.   
By day ten, though, Lars gave up and decided to give his new employee some space. He must have made some guess about the reason why James was so introverted and told his wife, because looked at him pitifully and cut her chatter by half, making pauses to gauge his reaction from time to time.  
Three more days and it was Friday. He came home with a bag of groceries and a pie with fish (these people tend to put fish everywhere) from Anna, now doting on him, dropped everything on a kitchen island and turned on a kettle. Half an hour later, full and surprised as to how delicious fish can be when cooked by someone skilled, he tried to summon any memories regarding a protocol for expressing gratitude.  
He came up with a bunch of nonsense: flowers (not recommended for another’s wife), reciprocation (like what, cooking a pie? he was not sure how to make one), gratitude (he mumbled a quick “tusen takk” - an expression he learned from Ole - to sheer amusement on Anna’s part, but was not sure if that was enough) and compliments (would saying “I enjoyed your pie very much, it is really good, even though I have nothing to compare it with” count as one?).  
Indecisive, he put everything in a growing fourth section of his notebook - it had no title and contained knowledge about behaviour expected of people and things he needed to do so as not to arouse suspicions. That Friday went pretty normal, except he went for a run earlier in order not to run in the numerous family living across the street - they had a shorter day on Fridays and usually came home at 5 pm and spent the rest of the day running around their yard, playing snowball and such. After that James exercised inside, his body craving physical load and exhaustion making him sleep better and went upstairs to call it a night, when he heard something unusual going on outside.  
A car screeched to a stop, there were voices, then the door slammed and someone rushed to the house. This person did not try to be discreet in approaching the house but that might be a distraction. He silently run to the kitchen, grabbed a set of knives and made an ambush in a dark part of the sitting room, where the light from outside could not reach.   
The door opened as someone turned a key in the lock - they had a key, not a lockpick, that he was sure of - and a person recklessly entered the house backwards, stomping one foot on the doorstep to shake the snow of her boot. That was a woman, James had understood it before she grabbed for the switch, missing it several times. As the light filled the hall, she locked the door, kicked off her boots, dropped a bag on the floor, shrugged off her coat and flung it at the sofa, ignoring coat hooks, one occupied by his own coat. She rubbed her eyes and went upstairs. Her face was familiar - it was on a framed picture. Older, paler and not smiling - but that was a girl from the picture fast forward about ten years.  
James waited for the door upstairs to click shut, hid a couple of knives upner the sofa and an armchair, then checked the perimeter - the woman came alone.   
He was at loss about what to do - put on his clothes and venture into the night? Literally everything in this part of the city closed after 9 pm except for a hotel. It was far, and judging from the prices on the menu of the restaurant on its first floor, advertised outside, he could afford a bowl of soup and probably a square meter by the back door. He could break inside and risk confrontation with the law-enforcement and subsequent run. Or he could take care of the girl, coldly mused the voice inside his head. He needed a shelter, she was a hindrance and thus a collateral damage of his struggle for survival. He furrowed his brow and shook his head - that won’t do. No more.  
He got a permission to live here from a co-owner, he remembered. The conditions obviously changed but there was not much of a choice. He made a decision to break the news of his presence to a girl and then confine himself in his room.  
He was checking the perimeter once again when the door upstairs opened and a series of quick steps followed. The light in the sitting room was switched on, and he was face to face with a scared woman:  
“Hva gjør du her?” - she demanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for getting here!  
> Comments and opinion are welcome!


	3. Know your roommate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much, a lovely person who left kudos - that is a first for me, yay!

“Um.. Sorry..” - language was a problem he had omitted.  
“English?” - she wondered aloud. “Well, what are you doing here? And who are you in the first place?”  
“I’m James.” answered he and realized he did not even bother to find out the name of the person who let him live here and gave the keys from Ole and Lars.  
The woman seemed furious with the answer: “Screw your name! What the hell are you doing in my house! Do you want me to call the police?”  
It took all the willpower he had not to smash her cellphone against the wall along with her fingers.  
“No. I just… The second owner of the place let me stay here!”  
“There’s no second owner” - spit the girl. “This moron has no rights over the place and he’d better get used to it”  
“I did not know that” - James uttered.  
“Oh, shut up for fuck’s sake!” snapped the woman and fished her phone out.  
“Police?” - asked James, prepared to snatch the phone out of her palm.  
“No” - she barked and rushed up the stairs. “Maria, what the bloody hell!”  
This comment was the last thing he heard from the first floor as the woman shut the door behind her. In five minutes she made her way back, angrily put on her clothes and looked at him, eyes narrowed: “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m going to break Marcu’s head and when I return, I’ll kick you out”.

James packed his stuff, counted his money - 1326 krones - and sat down in the living room with a key in his hand. The woman came back in an hour and a half, no longer furious, but still not pleasant towards him.  
“Tomorrow night I’m changing the locks” she told him and went upstairs to lock herself into her room.  
He interpreted this as a sign he could stay one more night - she saw his backpack and clothes gathered by his side but made no motion to get rid of him on the spot. She was in no way nice or welcoming, but that was not what he had been used to. So he stayed.  
He skipped his evening exercise session and that was probably the reason why the night went wrong. He had a problem falling asleep, laying in his bed motionless and staring at the ceiling. When he finally managed to dose off, he had a series of nightmares, some of them leaving him in tears and others made him toss and turn. He must have been loud and prepared to have the woman tell him off in the morning.  
When he left for work, she must have probably been sleeping. When he came back, the door had a new lock - a modern looking matte metal construction - and was unlocked. The host was sitting in the kitchen, hugging a cup of steaming coffee.  
“Morning”, she said and threw something at him. It was a key. “Give it to Marcu and I’ll cut your throat”.  
He could not help but smile wryly. She was quite tall but still he was at least 5 cm taller, her build was medium while his was quite big. She also looked young - relaxed and makeup free, she looked a little over 20.  
“Katrina by the way.” she rose up.  
“James” he said and made to move upstairs.  
“Yeah, I know. So, you can stay for two more weeks”.  
“Tusen takk”.  
“Værsågod!” - she smirked. “I prefer English”  
He just nodded and went to his room.  
Katrina stayed in the house over the weekend and left while he was at work on Monday. He was relieved to have the house to himself, but not knowing for exactly how long she would be gone prevented him from letting his guard down. She had not been a lousy neighbor as she did not make much noise, washed her dishes and bought her own food. And still he was afraid to let something slip at night during his struggle with sleep or to lash out at her for doing anything innocent and commonplace, like making a loud noise or being persistent with questions. She had done none - so far.  
“So, the owner came back to the house” - James shared with Lars.  
“Oh… They swore she does not live there!” - Lars exclaimed and probed lightly: “How.. how was she?”  
“Um… Surprised. Angry”, James shook his head.  
“Did she do anything to get rid of you?”  
“Well, she promised, but then gave me some more time. I’ll figure something out by then” - James shrugged.  
“I’ll think about the options too. But I’m glad the girl was not a pain in the ass” Lars rolled his eyes, while James only eyes him waiting for the clarification. “Well, I’ve only seen her a couple of times. She seemed nice or at least civil. But I’ve heard that her family is not so fond of her. Except for her grandfather, who chose her to inherit the house”.  
“So it’s hers?”  
“Well, Marcu used to occupy a half of it, but moved out when he married Maria. Her old man willed her to have his share”.  
“I see”, - he nodded. So she was used to having the place to herself even though she barely came there and an unwanted visitor unnerved her. It was likely that she went to have a couple of words with this Marcu but was put in her place, because her “spoiled brat” act seized after the trip.  
“Are they related?” - asked James.  
“Oh, yeah, he is her uncle or a something like that. He was related to her grandfather, that’s for sure”.  
So they had complicated relationships within family. It was none of his business, but he had to share his roof with this woman. And she did not look like a pleasant person to deal with. He did not remember his own family, he knew deep in his gut that he had someone and loved them. If her relatives were “not so fond of her”... well, she must have been a handful. He did not see himself a good person either and did not have much choice, so they’d have to work out a way to interact - or not interact for that matter.  
After he finished his work he went to Anna to thank her for a pie. In the end, he fared well - deeming her pie the best thing he had eaten in ages and in a fit of inspiration that must have come from Bucky stating he envied her husband. She flushed and mumbled that it had been nothing and he could always count on their help.  
Lars put an end to this, waving for him to come back inside. He briefly wondered if the man was displeased of the exchange with Anna, but apparently he trusted his wife and had his suspicions concerning James’ housemate.  
“Look. if she pulls some shit, tell me and we’ll give you a room in our house, we can put kids together for a week or so. Just… let me know if she gets unbearable, okay?”  
“Mhm”, James nodded, thinking Lars was worrying about the wrong person. Had he known about the life of his employee some half a year ago, he’s call the police and cut him off the house faster than one says “danger”.  
“Alright, here’s my number, what’s yours? Have you gotten a local sim-card yet?”  
James just shook his head. Lars looked at him pitifully (again - why on Earth?) and went to the shop to return with a flat square box labeled “Telenor”. He turned the box around and dialed the numbers from its back on his own smartphone.  
“Alright, open it and use the simcard. Be safe, man” - he gave James a tap on the shoulder and waved his goodbye.  
James left his groceries at home, ate a quick breakfast and ventured to the nearest e-store he knew. The cheapest, plainest cell phone significantly drained his savings and he felt a tinge of aggression towards Lars for interfering with his mission to save as much money as possible. Except it was not a mission, it was a goal and there will be no subsequent punishment for a delay, he reasoned with himself. He had no trouble learning how to use the thing - somehow he even found a way to change the language of the interface. He had a way with technology. And that did not come from Bucky.  
Coming back home store he notices the lights in the house. There was a car in the driveway - quite dirty and not expensive looking, it was it as good a condition as a well-used car can be. A dark green volvo with local plates must have belonged to Katrina. Checking for the signs of intrusion or an ambush was a must but this time he had no chance as he run into his house-mate as she set her foot out of the house.  
She had no intention to leave though, as her only clothes was a set of matching flannel pants and a t-shirt, and she wore slippers.  
“Hey there” - she blurted out and pushed past him to retrieve something from a car. He stood there watching her. Katrina popped the trunk open and took out a number of shopping bags.  
“Wanna help?” - she asked, noticing him looking, then handed him the whole load and closed the trunk. “This is all. Put them on the sofa”.  
She rushed back inside, leaving the door open and stood in the hall tapping her foot in sheer impatience. She cellphone chirped and she picked it up.  
“Oh hi there! I’m coming! Like... at ten maybe later… It will be boring as hell if you come earlier. Yep, trust me” - she chatted away while leaving wet spots with her slippers and tearing the bags open. “I have a killer dress! I sorta regret Jack’s coming with us… I’d be the star of that party and get a date with a hot man. Yes, you can still do that!”  
She then listened to a long speech giggling like a schoolgirl from time to time. He wondered how old she in fact was.  
“Well, see ya tonight, be ready for some action!”  
There was a pause.  
“Yes! Smooches!”  
She flung her phone on the sofa, somewhere in the pile of bags and clothes.  
“Do you not have something to do? I mean besides standing here and watching me and being creepy?” - she made a face.  
Anger. Offence. Not knowing what to say. Three people, three reactions. But Katrina did not want to wait: “Alright, I don’t have time for you to unfreeze” He almost got a whiplash turning to look at her. She just gave an exasperated huff and went to her room, hugging a pile of bags.  
Unfreeze? What did she know? Was it a hint? She was reckless and seemingly harmless, yes, but that could be an act. Was it possible that either of organizations that wanted him could follow him to this snowy nowhere and set up a plan like this? To give him work, shelter and a handler looking as a vain, narrow-minded and rude girl?  
He thought back to his every action following his leaving the Potomac river bank. Some of the events of that months were blurry, but he remembered the revelation in the museum and every change of a hide-out that followed. The final step was becoming a stowaway on a cargo plane. This action followed a wicked series of flashbacks of the Soldier’s life if it could be called “life” and was nothing but spontaneous. Could he have been followed? From which point?  
He sat in the kitchen and pretended to be busy with cooking when Katrina took the stair down. She looked… something. A short dress of silky red-pink fabriс hugged her body like second skin, leaving her legs open from 15 cm over her knees. The top did not expose her cleavage but did nothing to hide it. The back was strappy and the skirt reached below her knees on the back. Her dark chestnut hair was put in a weird-looking braid, makeup was heavy and bright. She put the strap of a tiny bag over the door handle and crouched before the wardrobe, pulling out some boxes.  
The weight of the bag forced the handle down and the door slid open letting in freezing air. He rose up and reached for the handle to close the door, when Katrina found what she was looking for and turned around.  
“The hell are you doing?” - she snapped.  
“The door opened because of it. Just keeping the heat inside” - he said between his teeth.  
“Oh… Right” - she did not look apologetic. “Still, don’t touch my stuff. It’s latest Michael Kors, for fuck’s sake”.  
He just clenched his fists and went back to his food. He knew firsthand what agents were capable of to accomplish a task but this was a little too much even for a good actor.  
She behaved like nothing happened, probably like he was not in the house at all. She shook a pair of heels out of the box, put them on - those were strappy beige shoes that made her 10 cm taller. The following scene made James surprised and annoyed: Katrina stood in front of the mirror, struck a pose and took a picture of herself, then tapped the screen of her phone several times, extended her arm and took a picture of her face with a fake smile plastered on. A series of wild taps on the poor device and she changed into boots, put on a coat, checked her makeup and was out of the door, blabbering on the phone “I’ve sent you the pics! Don’t I look gorgeous?”.  
She left a cloud of perfumed air, disheveled wardrobe, an empty box and a set of puddles. She also left James generally displeased but relieved upon her absence and more that half-convinced this was not a set-up. She was most likely not a handler. Just a shallow and infuriating wench. Still, he separated several sheets of his notebook for a new object of observation labeled with a “K”.


	4. Family ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos!

Katrina returned three days after in the evening, as usual, pushing the door open and throwing a bunch of stuff wherever she saw fit. Surprisingly enough. this time she caused no havok and left no dirty trail. She also refrained from derogatory comments and any talk whatsoever - just nodded at James when he came to the kitchen and found her there.   
The woman was cooking something since the oven was lit up and sweet smell emanated from there. She gave him way to the fridge and busied herself with cleaning up. They spend a couple of minutes in silence.  
“There will be an apple pie” Katrina told to his back. “Also Marcu’s coming”.  
He did not know what to make of that, so he just let out a sound that could pass for agreement or request for clarification.   
“You like apples?” she asked, putting away a sponge. He just shrugged - apples were fruit but that was about all known to him. She bit her lip and smiled. When she opened her mouth to say something, the doorbell rang.  
“Open” shouted Katrina and James made a notice in the back of his mind to check the doors regularly wherever she came - he deemed a lecture on safety in the house useless with this person. Meanwhile Katrina opened the oven and stuck a toothpick in the crust of a pie, by the way, apples looked and smelled insanely good, and a pudgy man muffled in a scarf entered the house.  
“Hallo!” - he shouted and both James and Katrina winced. “What a terrible weather!”  
“That’s a pretty mild weather for winter here” - Katrina retorted dryly.  
James said his hello and studied the man. Marcu had the same darker-that-locals complexion, dark hair with occasional grey strands and was a good head shorter that his relative. He gave off the image of an easygoing and friendly person with no signs of Katrina’s trademark bitchiness.  
Katrina took the pie out, while men shook hands, plopped it on the table and stated “It needs to cool down for some time”. She narrowed her eyes at Marcu and motioned upstairs “Come talk to me, sweetheart”.  
The man tensed visibly and followed her in silence. James was stuck downstairs. Having no desire to eavesdrop, he still had not trouble understanding the exchange between the two.  
“Really, Marcu? I’m stuck with this thanks to you and now you’re pushing for a family visit?”  
“They want to visit, it was not my idea! I cannot prohibit your mother…”  
“Of course not” Katrina’s voice was full of mockery “but you can at least not encourage them”.  
“I do not encourage them! But in case the daughter doesn’t want to greet her parents and sister, I gladly welcome them!”  
“Oh, really? Does Maria?”  
“She does not mind!”  
“She doesn’t want to forbid that outright because for a reason I do not understand you got way more than you deserve with her!”  
“I know that” Marcu sounded dejected.   
“You know full well she does not enjoy being around them”  
“I know that you don’t and you are friends with my wife”  
“That’s not about me, Marcu”  
“Really? Then what is it about? You keep them far from you, they’ve learnt about your promotion from me - and I learned from Maria, thank you for your openness!”  
“I don’t owe you shit” Katrina coldly interrupted.  
“No, you don’t. But can you just be generous for one time and call them?”  
“Why?”  
“She told me she misses her daughter”  
“She has another one” - Katrina laughed.  
“Look, I know it’s complicated. Don’t shake your head - if it was not, your mother’d never try to reach out through me. She wants to know about your life! She wants to know about your boyfriend. She wonders how you got promoted!”  
“Alright. You can write it down and call her later to report. My boyfriend is pursuing a postgraduate degree in economics, he is from Manchester, England and his parents own a chain of car workshops throughout the UK and grudge no money for their precious son. As for the job…” her voice has been raising to this point but after a pause she went on in a syrupy sweet tone: “I fucked my boss!”  
Silence fell.   
“Look, Marcu, there’s a pie waiting and your protege probably wants to chat up, so shall we..?”  
“No, khm, Maria’s waiting for me to have dinner together…”  
“Good, I’ll give you some pie for both of you”, - she told him as both emerged from upstairs.  
The phone vibrated in her pocket and she picked it up: “Yep, hi. Nooo, I’m here. Sure. When? Kay” she hung up and smiled at Marcu.  
“You’ll have one more thing to report to mommy. Just wait a couple of minutes”.  
Marcu stood in silence, not so cheerful as he had been, following Katrina with wary eyes. She shuffled in the cupboard and triumphantly produced a food container and a stack of plates, then she swiftly turned the kettle on.  
There was a noise coming from outside, the light from headlights coming through the kitchen windows and the door opened without any notice. A tall blond man barged in and sang “Hello, sweetheart” in a thick English accent.  
Katrina hugged him and planted a kiss on his lips, whispering something in his ear. Marcu turned his back on that, looking at James and reddening.  
“Soo, that’s my uncle Marcu and his friend James. And this is Jack, my boyfriend” - Katrina introduced everyone and watched as Tony shook hands with Marcu and James with satisfied expression. “Wanna have some tea and an apple pie?”  
“Nope, sorry, sweets, gotta rush, we are going to a pub with the boys” Tony shook his head. “I need that drive, Treen”.  
Katrina gave him a small flash drive from her purse and the guy was gone.  
“Pie, pie, pie” she sang, staffing a big chunk into the container. “Here. Maria’s gonna like it”.  
“Gotta go running, sorry” - mumbled James and pushed from the table to change.  
When changing into his running suit, he could still hear the voices from downstairs.  
“Sure… So, Katrina, will you please think about them coming here?”  
She sighed.   
“No. They won’t stay with me, no way in hell. I don’t want to meet them, I want to miss them, I really do, but that’s yet to come”.  
“You don’t really live here, you haven’t been for a year or so”.  
“Well, that’s none of your business - and none of theirs. I come and go as I please and I have every right to do so.”  
“Look, they want to make up!” - Marcu exclaimed.  
“By pushing me to the very same issue we had a problem over? No, actually, I had and have no problem, it rests with them. And it will rest with you if you do not back bloody off!”  
“I don’t want to quarrel with either of you… but there’s no chance! I can’t refuse their pleas to talk to you and I can’t talk to you without you raising hell. What shall I do?”  
“Grow a pair. And mind your freaking business” Katrina sounded sad “They’ll ride you while you let them, and I won’t budge, so you’ll lose either way. I cause you no problems - don’t interrupt - let me be and there won’t be any. Let them be and you have a royal pain in the ass - see for yourself what to do. I’ve made my choice.”  
James sat there wondering what that meant and what the closest people (that was his definition of a family) could possibly do to Katrina. He did not want to judge but Katrina’s behaviour and the thing her uncle did for him were a crystal clear premise to consider the woman a selfish creature pushing away her parents and a sister mentioned by Marcu. She also chewed Marcu out for a talk - something that lasted 20 minutes and required no endeavour on her part. Nice lady.. she was not.  
The plot thickened so much this evening that the number of pages allotted for his housemate might later prove insufficient. And still he had to keep track on her.   
Marcu shouted his goodbye so that James could hear had he been an average person and left. James went downstairs to find the woman sitting at the kitchen table with her chin in her hands, expression unreadable and guarded.  
“Have a nice run” she uttered.  
He did. He felt his muscles filling with much desired burning in an hour and a half. When he was home in 30 more minutes, a pie stood on the table, untouched except for the piece she sent with Marcu and Katrina was in her room. “Not poisoned” was a note left by the pie, so James smelled it, made a visual check, ate a trial piece and dug into a wet sweet dessert assured that the note said the truth.  
Next morning he went to work to find an empty house upon his return.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and review are really appreciated! I really hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
